The Lonely Skier Read Online Free PDF Page A

way into dinner.
    â€˜You’ll be glad enough to return to it,’ he muttered, ‘after you’ve had a day or two up in that damned hut.’
    As I sat down, I glanced round the room at the other diners, wondering whether the girl who had signed herself ‘Carla’ in that photograph would be there. She wasn’t, of course, though the majority of the women in the room were Italian. I wondered why Engles should expect her to be at Cortina.
    â€˜No need to try and catch their eyes,’ Joe Wesson said through a mouthful of
ravioli
. ‘Judging by the looks of most of ’em, you’ve only got to leave your bedroom door open.’
    â€˜You’re being unnecessarily coarse,’ I said.
    His little bloodshot eyes twinkled at me. ‘Sorry, old man. Forgot you’d been in Italy long enough to know your way around. Is it a
contessa
or a
marchesa
you’re expecting?’
    â€˜I don’t quite know,’ I replied. ‘It could just as well be a
signora
, or even a
signorina
, or just a common or garden little tart.’
    â€˜Well, if it’s the last you’re wanting,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t have much difficulty in this assembly.’
    After dinner I went in search of the owner of the hotel. I wanted to find out what local information I could about Col da Varda and its
slittovia
. Our accommodation at the chalet had been booked through him and I thought, therefore, that he should be able to tell me what there was to know.
    Edouardo Mancini was a short stocky man of very light colouring for an Italian. He was part Venetian and part Florentine and he had lived a long time in England. In fact, he had once been in the English bob-sleigh team. He had been among the great of the bob-sleigh world. But he had had to pack it up ten years ago after a really bad smash. His right arm had been broken in so many places that it was virtually useless.
    Once he had doubtless been a slim, athletic figure, but when I met him he had put on weight so that his movements were slow. He was a heavy drinker. I imagine that started after his final accident. It was not difficult to pick him out among his guests. He looked almost a cripple, his big body moving slowly, almost stiffly among them. He had broken practically every bone in his body at one time or another and I believe he carried quite a weight of platinum around in place of missing bone. But in spite of this, his rather dissipated features were genial under his mop of titian hair, which rose almost straight up from his scalp, giving him height and a curiously youthful air. He was a very wealthy man and the biggest hotelier in Cortina.
    Most of this I learned from an American I had met in the bar before dinner. He had been a Colonel in the American Army and had had something to do with Cortina when it was being run as an Allied leave centre.
    I found Edouardo Mancini in the bar. He and his wife were having a drink with my American friend and two British officers up from Padua. The American introduced me. I mentioned that I was going up to Col da Varda the next day. ‘Ah, yes,’ Mancini said. ‘There are two of you—no? And you are planning to do a film? You see, I know who my guests are.’ And he beamed delightedly. He spoke English very fast and with just the trace of a Cockney accent mixed up with the Italian intonation. But it was very difficult to follow him, for his speech was obstructed by saliva which crept into the corners of his mouth as he talked. I imagine his jaw had been smashed up in one of his accidents and had not set properly.
    â€˜Col da Varda belongs to the hotel, does it?’ I asked.
    â€˜No, no—good heavens, no!’ He shook his large head vehemently. ‘You must not have that idea. I would not like you to blame all the short-comings of the place on me. You would obtain a bad impression. My hotel is my home. I do not have
anybody
here, you understand. You are my